


In Your Eyes

by orangefriday



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - In The Flesh, Character Death not Ian or Mickey, Depression, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:39:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1777687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangefriday/pseuds/orangefriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In The Flesh AU - Ian and Mickey are Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers that must re-enter society and face a world plagued by the after effects of The Rising, as well face their own personal demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't watched In The Flesh - please do - although it's not necessary in order to read this fic as I will be trying my best to fill in the knowledge gaps between the two universes. 
> 
> The story doesn't follow the exact timeline of The Rising in In The Flesh. I made a few changes to fit the story. 
> 
> Season 3 happened (so 3x06 and its horrors and all) but Mickey doesn't marry Svetlana and there's no baby.

When he finds Mickey Milkovich, living, present and solid with hair dusted golden by the setting sun, Ian thinks he feels a beat in his chest.

But he couldn’t have. He’s dead after all – no – _suffering_ from Partially Deceased Syndrome. Fiona had drilled that bit of terminology into his head harder than all the doctors back at the centre. But otherwise, his heart is as still as flat beer so it’s not surprising when he looks down and sees he’s walked right into a gravestone.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole.” Mickey scowls up at him where he’s seated on the drying yellow grass and does a double take of Ian. He expects Mickey’s expression to change into one of surprise or disgust. That’s what most people had done today when they had seen his bare grey skin and sunken black pinpoint eyes. It’s either like they’ve seen the devil reincarnated or had just scraped dogshit off of their shoes. Yet Mickey only looks back at the gravestone in front of him, his shoulders relaxing and scowl slipping away. To Ian, it almost looks like Mickey is relieved to see it was just him.

“Sorry,” Ian says, walking towards Mickey with a smile creeping onto his face. Ian had looked everywhere for Mickey. All their familiar places: the dug out, under the El, and the Kash N Grab even though it was now boarded up and abandoned. It was when he had passed by the Milkovich house that he decided his best bet would be to to go to the cemetery, as much as Ian wanted to avoid it.

He continues to stare down at Mickey until the other boy is forced to look up at him. This time Mickey’s expression is hesitant, maybe even a little shy if he’ll ever admit it, brows quirked upwards and lips tense. He watches with a smirk as Mickey struggles to form words until the other settles on pointing at his own face.

“Make up too good for you, Gallagher?” Mickey asks and scoffs when Ian shrugs.

“I gave most of it to Debs.”

Mickey shakes his head. “You’re gonna get yourself punched in the balls looking like that.”

“Not like it’ll kill me,” Ian jokes and he catches just the beginning of a smile on Mickey’s face before it settles back to the solemn look from before. He sits down next to Mickey, careful to keep a safe distance from the other. He doesn’t quite look at the grave in front of him but Ian’s lying if he says he doesn’t know who it belongs to.

“You miss me?” Ian asks, trying to sound nonchalant as he tugs at a particularly stubborn knot of grass.

Pressure on his side makes him look at Mickey, who is smiling slightly. “Yeah,” Mickey says finally. “Like shit.” Ian grins wide at the confession, feeling again like he might just have a heartbeat under his cold chest. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t break that ugly face of yours now. Fucking dick.”

They laugh, sharing a moment that didn’t need words. With Mickey close – again; living, present, and solid – and their shoulders pressed together, they don’t say anymore for a while. Content for the moment, Ian continues to play with the grass below his knee while Mickey stares hard at the gravestone in front of them, as if his concentration alone could will something, anything, to happen. But Ian doesn’t let himself think about what Mickey might be hoping for. He doesn’t even let himself flinch when he finally catches the name and dates engraved onto the grey granite.

The gravestone is like a looming presence Ian refuses to acknowledge but it nonetheless stamps its existence with force.

So, instead, Ian takes the time to drink in the sight of Mickey. A sight he’s missed so much. It’s been too long – years and months and months. Those dark nights and lonely mornings are when he had missed Mickey the most. Weeks along the line, he had been hoping and then afraid he would forget how Mickey looked, how he talked, how he walked and everything else. But then he had been shot, bleeding out on a grass field, and Mickey’s face had materialized before him clear as fucking water.

And so it’s surreal looking at Mickey now, wearing a hoodie, zipped up to the collar even though it’s the middle of August while heat waves drizzle in Ian’s peripheral. Then again, it’s not like it matters what they wear now. Cold, heat, hunger – all types of physical feelings made obsolete with the condition of dying and coming back partially deceased. Although pain still exists for the PDS sufferer and that in itself is a shitty deal.

You’d think things like shame and dignity wouldn’t matter half as much, being almost dead and all. Yet Mickey still handles himself just the way Ian remembers: a kind of stubbornness and pride too big for his smallness but perfectly expected nonetheless. Mickey’s all jaw set determinacy, eyes firm, chest out, neck straight – and then there’s those small fidgeting hands – hands that had punched, grabbed, and touched – decorated with the familiar tattoo, albeit its colour is muffled under the orange beige of the cover up. Ian appreciates Mickey’s careful attempt at colouring his skin. There are hardly any streaks on his neck and his hairline is carefully blended in with the rest of his face. And his eyes – Ian has missed those eyes. Hasn’t forgotten for a second how they looked at him. So it’s disappointing to see that Mickey’s contacts are the wrong shade of blue; they’re darker and muddier. Not like the shining blue that seemed to hold an ocean’s share of emotions. He then glosses over Mickey’s lips, pale and dry from the cover up and Ian smothers the urge to touch those lips, wipe the thick layer of product away. He wonders why they don’t give them lipstick and almost laughs aloud at the thought of Mickey Milkovich painting his lips hot red.

“What’s so funny?” Mickey asks, jostling lightly at Ian’s shoulder with his own.

“Nothing,” says Ian quickly and goes back to ripping apart the dead grass. He hears Mickey mumble a ‘whatever’ and the comfortable quiet is renewed.

Time isn’t an urgent thing for them anymore either. If Ian hadn’t had years of running out and catching up and obsessing over time, he would’ve sat there with Mickey in the graveyard until all the Living had died and they were the only ones left. But Ian has a million and one questions for Mickey and they race up and down in the centre of his thoughts until he finally gives in and speaks.

“You look stupid.”

It’s not exactly what he wants to say to Mickey, after dying, then a year of going about in his ‘untreated state’ and another of rehabilitating, and finally _living_ again. But it’s what comes out and he feels only sheepish when Mickey raises a dark brow at him.

“Says who?” Mickey thumbs at his lips, a bit of cover up mousse transferring onto his thumb. He looks away when Ian doesn’t answer. “Whatever, Gallagher. At least I’m not walking around looking like – like a fucking rot–“ and he pauses, stopping himself.

Ian sits up straight, frowning. “Like what, Mick?”

“Nothing.” Mickey sniffs and attempts a smile but Ian doesn’t smile back. “Forget it, Ian.” Nobody says that word, at least not in front of anyone who actually is one. It’s not as if saying the goddamned word would unveil some surprising hidden truth.

“Just say it, Mickey. They all say it anyway.” He almost spits his next words, “ _Rotters,_ right?” He watches as Mickey flinches, looks away, and something inside of Ian boils red hot. “Or were you thinking zombies? How about corpses? Walkers? Oh, no, shit, sorry, the politically correct term is, uh, what the fuck was it again? Right! PDS _sufferers._ ‘Cause, damn, are we fucking suffering!”

Ian’s laughing now, open, loud, and forced.

“Just shut the fuck up, man,” says Mickey, voice edged with warning. The sun is a sliver of yellow under the quickly darkening sky but Ian can still see the way Mickey grimaces, squeezing his eyes closed and open again.

“But isn’t that what we are?”

“Jesus Christ, why do you have to—” He watches as Mickey gets up, frustration evident in the way he holds his shoulders, turning around and back again to face Ian but not meeting his gaze. They don’t move and finally the last light of the day’s sun is gone. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where?” Ian asks, almost automatically. The anger lifts instantly and a sheer moment of panic rushes in. Mickey shakes his head and makes to leave. Looking over his shoulder, he opens his mouth to say something but seems to think better of it.

He shuts down then. Frustration wiped clean and turns away.

“You comin’ back?”

The question surprises Ian. He doesn’t quite understand it but answers it anyway. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Mickey nods and scratches the corner of his lip. “I got shit to do, Gallagher. See ya ‘round.” And then Mickey’s walking across the cemetery with quick, brisk strides, too fast for Ian to get up and go after him.

An evening wind sweeps up and into the distance between them. It’s far too languid and unassuming and it makes Ian wish the wind were as harsh as the regret nipping at the fingertips of his thoughts.

"Fuck.” Ian sighs and drops his head into his hands.

Of course this is what happens. Ian always screws everything up.

He knows he shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have been so forceful and explosive. Doesn’t understand why he always does it. He knows it only pushes Mickey further away. Knows that it’s self-destructive and stupid but finally seeing Mickey again reminds Ian of all the shit he was trying to get away from in the first place. It reminds him of how hard it was to just pretend they were fine, that it was all okay, that Ian was happy with what little he was allowed to express towards Mickey. Left because he was so irrevocably in love with Mickey that he had had to go and get himself shot just to stop those feelings. Only to rise from the worm-infested earth and realize it would never ever stop. Not even when he was six feet under dead or even when he was defying the very limits of human life.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ” He finally looks, right at the gravestone in front of him. He’s never seen it in his Living years, but he’s pictured it a thousand times. It’s even more devastating and no amount of _thinking about it_ would ever prepare him for it. The sight clenches something fierce in his chest. He’s been punched, kicked, beaten and shot in the fucking stomach. But this — this makes makes him wish he were buried underneath instead of here.

Ian chokes back a sob as he kneads the heel of his hand into his eyes, feels a wetness smear across his wrist. Bites so hard on his lip that if he could bleed, blood would be dripping all over him.

“Fuck. Your brother’s such an asshole.” He says, straining a smile. “Okay, fine, all right. We’re both assholes.” He laughs sadly. Tears blur his vision and he reaches a hand out. Ian grows quiet, then desperate. “I wish you were here. I don’t know what to do, Mandy.”

The headstone offers nothing. The ground is still.

 

**

 

Mickey closes the door behind him with a bang. There’s no one here. They’re on some kind of rally up north, acting war heroes, gathering the fighters and spreading the news. Weren’t even going to say anything until Mickey showed up in the kitchen and they went all silent. A pissed off _what?_ from Mickey granted him an answer.

So tonight, no brothers. No dad.

And no Mandy.

Just him.

The silence is welcoming.

Mickey makes his way down the hall, ignoring the half dozen or so medals on the wall, glimmering from the street lamps outside. They commemorate things that Mickey cares nothing for. Things that say _good fucking job on staying alive_ or _good for you for not getting fucked and fucking everything else_. None of them are for him.

He’s been back for two days, gone for a good two years, and everything was more or less what he expected. He had had to kick his brothers in place, show them they were useless without him and needed him at the top again. Mickey had been playing along with his father’s sick idea that he was back from fighting off rotters, even listening to the stories of his father and his brothers killing rotter after rotter. He’s familiar with the power of denial and the fact that he’s still walking upright with brains in his head is a testament to his ability to fall right back into the Milkovich line.

Another bang, another door. He switches on the bathroom light and stops short at the sink.

Mickey counts, squeezes his eyes shut and takes a breath as he squares his shoulders to face the mirror. He can do it. Just go go go and it’s done.

He opens his eyes.

What’s reflected back at him is a man with too orange skin, dark blue eyes and lips just a tinge of bruised purple. Whatever it is – is too _obvious_. Hoodie unzipped, the skin below his collar is grey. The light from the streetlamp is stark white and it emphasizes the patches of unevenly applied cover up. And his eyes…

His eyes look dead.

Mickey stares for a long time. His eyes steely in a way he doesn’t recognize. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Staring, looking, _glaring_ and thinking of all the things that could be changed, fixed, that should’ve been different. Things that weren’t supposed to happen but did. He was supposed to die. He wasn’t supposed to come back. He hadn’t wanted to – not after Ian had left. Especially not after Mandy had died. Mickey had wanted to go to her.

To them.

He’s so caught up in looking at the – the _thing_ – in the mirror, he doesn’t even realize how hard he’s shaking. His chest is heaving, breaths coming out fast and haggard, and his grip on the edge of the sink is hard and tight.

Mickey hates what he sees in the mirror so much he raises his fist and slams it right into the glass.

His rage is broken by the rattle of glass and fist. Its crunch is crushingly loud and snaps Mickey back from that horrible place. The place where he thinks of the dozens of guns littered round his home, the drugs scattered on the tables and how he’s done it before and how he could very well do it all over again. 

His fragmented reflection growls at him. 

“Shit.” Mickey shakes his head and looks up, feeling the corners of his eyes sting. His knuckles thrum from the memory of the impact. He stretches out his fingers, watches them shake and huffs with exasperation. He looks back at the mirror once more, gaze unsteady and angry, before he opens the cabinet with more force than necessary. Mickey fishes around for his syringe and a new dose of Neurotriptyline. Maybe it’ll calm him down. Maybe his last dose was a fuck up and wasn’t enough for the full twenty-four hours.

_It’s to control and treat your… condition. Generating neurogenesis in your brain, it will allow you to function normally in society._

_You’re a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer and what you did in your untreated state was not your fault._

The words echo in his mind as he secures the bottle of green liquid to the syringe. He feels with his fingers the spot on his neck, traces the roughness of its edges and closes his eyes. He repeats the words like a mantra; the last part feeling less and less true each time he injects the shit at the back of his neck. _Not your fault_. The whole thing seems even more stupid as the medicine shocks his whole system. _Not your fault._ In the end, when he’s ridden out the sting of what’s supposedly keeping him sane, Mickey’s able to settle with the idea that he won’t be turning rabid any time soon in the next twenty-four hours.

He’s calm now. His eyes still closed, he thinks of Ian for a minute. Instantly, a smile tugs at his lips. He’s happy. He should be happy. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Ian. Couldn’t reconcile the fact that Ian was standing right there – right in front of him. Had wanted to go and find him but figured he’d make Gallagher sweat. Couldn’t believe that he had thought he would never see that stupid red head again and how lucky Mickey is that Ian was _right there_. He didn’t even care for a second that Ian was ashen grey and white eyed. God, he missed Ian’s smile. 

It’s almost like everything’s better. Like everything was okay. He lets the syringe slip from his fingers and into the sink. Steels himself, lets the small smile stay. But when he opens his eyes –

It takes a towel over the broken mirror for Mickey to calm down again. He takes out his contacts and wipes the wetness from his face.

 

**

 

There’s the sound of muffled bass reverberating from the Gallagher home. And laughter twinkles out between beats along with yelps, a crash, and even harder laughter. Ian’s already shaking his head with a smile before he opens the door and is assaulted by the scene all at once.

Fiona and Vee are dancing wildly, their heads thrown back and mouths wide open. Liam stands between them, looking up at them with a slippery smile and thumb between his teeth. Kevin shouts encouragement as he swings back large gulps of liquor – a beer and cheap vodka in each hand. And Lip is sunken in the couch, blowing smoke out of his nostrils. He smiles wide when he sees Ian walk into the living room.

“Hey there, soldier! Where the fuck have you been all day?”

Ian shrugs in a noncommittal way. “Y’know, just sayin’ hi to the friendly neighbourhood.”

“Ian!” Fiona and Vee both shout his name and haul Ian to the other side of the coffee table. Veronica takes Ian’s face in his hands, squishes it this way and that until Ian’s laughing. He doesn’t quite understand what she’s saying, something about him looking _hella fine_. Her words are slurred and blaringly loud but eventually he’s dancing with them, even doing a waltz number with Liam who is all giggles and no rhythm at all. Boy, his brother’s gotten so big.

Debbie comes out of the kitchen with brownies that reek of weed and everyone besides Ian and Debs herself takes one greedily. Carl’s nowhere in sight but there’s crashing upstairs and Fiona screams for Carl to stop, sisterly habits still in play even when she’s drunk and high.

At one point, Frank stumbles in through the back door, shouting nonsense about the Chinese and _bless their fucking tiny dicks for selling brains_. He’s only got one contact on and his chin is a mess of cover up and slobbery bits of meat. The party only laughs harder and cheers for the miracle of Frank Gallagher, cured of alcoholism and almost two years sober.

Frank offers him what’s left of the brains in his plastic bag (Frank says its better than crack) but Ian flatly refuses. Kevin dares to try a bit, but not even a second later, he’s chugging down a fresh bottle of beer to rid the taste.

Eventually Ian falls back onto the couch beside Lip, elation following him as he takes in everything around him. It’s like nothing’s changed. Everyone he loves is as crazy and as shameless as ever. When he takes out his phone, itching to text Mandy, the rumble of happiness in his chest drops out of him suddenly.

The background of his phone is a picture of him and Mandy wearing each other’s sunglasses and their tongues sticking out. They had taken so many selfies that day that Ian’s phone warned him of the minimal space left. He ended up deleting most of those pictures and part of him now wants to punch himself for doing that.

He feels Lip’s eyes on him and quickly pockets his phone. But it’s too late because Lip’s face is in a frown and he’s up and out the door before Ian can say anything. Heaving a sigh, he follows his brother onto the porch.

Lip’s lighting a new cigarette and pacing at the bottom of the stairs. He shuts the door lightly and Lip and Ian are left with the odd quiet of the Southside.

“You go see her?”

Ian doesn’t have to ask who. “Yeah.”

Lip nods, takes a long drag and shoves his freehand in his pocket. “I had to work extra shifts at the cafeteria to get that stupid headstone. They weren’t even going to do that. Just thought they’d stick a cross and it’d be all right.” Somebody inside cheers and Lip goes quiet. “She – she didn’t – didn’t even fucking believe in god.”

Ian doesn’t say anything. Just watches his brother.

Eventually Lip finishes his smoke and throws the bud out onto the street.

“Why’s it so fucking quiet?” says Ian, having enough of the stillness. He forces out a chuckle to lighten the mood.

Lip answers, his tone somber, “Habit, I guess. There were curfews.”

It’s then that Ian notices the outline of a gun behind Lip’s shirt. He walks down the steps and easily swipes the weapon out from Lip. He begins to say, “I guess this must be a new habit –”

He feels a death grip envelope the base of his neck and then he’s on the floor with Lip’s weight on top. The arm holding the gun is twisted and Ian drops it.

“Jesus!” Ian yelps and finds himself locked in a staring match with Lip whose eyes are blown wide. His brother’s breath smells like a mix of alcohol and smoke and it’s all too close and rapid. Lip looks wild, as if he’s ready to pounce and it’s a moment before his brother lets him go and Lip scrambles off of him, gun back in his own hand.

“Sorry, man,” Lip mumbles. There’s another cigarette between his lips now and he offers Ian a hand.

Ian takes it, hauling himself up and takes a few breaths, recovering from the tumble. The gun is stowed away methodically back under the waistband of Lip’s jeans.

“Let me guess. Habit?”

Lip laughs, looking embarrassed. “Yeah.” He pats a heavy hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Look, I’m all for your choice in not wearing make up and all. Freedom, liberation and all that shit. I totally support you, but I have to admit,” he laughs more before he continues, “it’s gonna take some getting used to.”

“What? You sayin’ I’m ugly?”

“No!” Then he smiles. “Well, yeah. Sorry, dude. Honest truth. What can I say, right?”

“Shut up, Lip.” Ian laughs and punches his brother in the arm. “Tell me I’m pretty!”

“I’m kidding!” Lip’s hands are in the air as he twists away from Ian’s insistent punching.

Eventually Lip calls uncle, professing dramatically and not at all convincingly on how pretty Ian looks. Ian accepts it with laughter and they sit down on the steps, content with each other’s presence. Lip offers him the smoke, clearly forgetting that Ian can no longer stomach it. Ian takes it anyway, but doesn’t put it to his lips. Their old fence has been built higher now with planks of wood nailed in haphazardly. The family bat leans against a corner, splintered and blackened with nails drilled in at the top. For a moment, Ian imagines his family during The Rising and a lump forms in his throat.

He pushes the feeling down. No use thinking of that.

“Can’t believe Frank’s back.” Another comment from Ian to ease the growing tension whenever words aren’t said. He passes the smoke back to Lip.

“Yeah, well, we didn’t even know he was dead.” Lip coughs through a particularly bad drag and throws the rest of the cigarette to the ground. “Figured he was just off somewhere getting pissed.”

“I’m amazed he didn’t get himself shot in the head. Now he’s going around eating animal brains.”

“That’s our dad. Always finding a way to get fucked up.”

Two years ago, there would have been sounds from both sides of the streets. People yelling, cars running. The odd crash and bang here and there. Now, Ian and Lip sit in calm quiet. The only sounds are their breathing and the ruckus inside.

“So,” Lip starts. “How was your first day out?”

Ian shrugs. He’d just been released from the treatment centre a week and a half ago, a month after Frank, taken the bus and the El all the way home with nothing but a plastic bag full of Neurotriptyline, contacts and cover up mousse he hasn’t touched since ‘re-entering society’. His family didn’t even know he was in treatment – he doesn’t blame them. They never even got to bury him.

They had been so happy to see him. After the shock and the disbelief, of course. They looked worse than the last he could remember, but he was happy to have them nonetheless.

Since then, he’s stayed at home under the covers or wrapped up in front of the TV watching cartoons and staying away from anything news related. Fi was worried for maybe two days until she gave up and Debbie took her place. Although Debbie was far less annoying and more understanding. She helped him, filled him in on what’s been happening, careful to gloss over the sad bits and the painful bits. She would even help him with the Neurotriptyline, making sure he took it at the right time. It was something he hated doing because it reminded him of how his whole existence now was conditioned to a bottle of green liquid.

It wasn’t until he heard Mickey Milkovich was back that he finally stepped outside.

“People stare more.”

Lip scoffs but doesn’t comment any further. Ian knows since the Pale Wars ended, Lip’s been in and out of jobs. Never able to hold one down over some problem or another. He’s overheard Fiona talking about how Lip won’t go back to school but can’t stand working for dead-end jobs.

He knows his brother’s got some deep-seeded shit going on inside. He’d been part of the Human Protection Militia and Lip has never been a fighter. If anything, Ian should’ve been in his place, but he couldn’t have very well done that – being the very thing they were trying to kill.

Ian doesn’t pry. Just like how Lip doesn’t either. He doesn’t ask what Lip dreams about or why he jolts awake every night (sometimes Ian can’t sleep and he sits on the top steps of the stairs like he’s guarding something). He’ll see Lip pulling his sheets apart and hauling in towels from the bathroom. And Lip doesn’t ask Ian about his time in the treatment centre or what he did when he rose.

No one has actually. Everybody’s just glad he’s back.

“I can send you the pictures of Mandy,” Ian adds, “if you want.”

Lips looks to him and holds his gaze, making Ian doubt whether his offer was a good idea or not. But Lip seems to be thinking, maybe trying to understand Ian and finally nods. There’s an inkling of sadness in his eyes as he says, “Yeah, thanks. I’d like that.”

Fiona comes out eventually and ushers the two brothers inside. Vee and Kevin leave with their arms draped over one another and everyone besides Ian works with practices ease to close all the doors and windows (“The fans will keep us cool,” Fiona says). Ian counts the locks and there are more than enough for each door. Everybody goes to bed. Even Frank crawls into his room.

Ian’s falling asleep when suddenly, his door is blasted wide open. There’s the tumbling crash of Carl falling out of his bunk and another loud bang outside the hallway. Ian squints through his sleep to see Debbie at the doorway and Lip just stumbling out of his room with a hand behind his back, no doubt wrapped around his gun.

“What the fuck, Debbie?” Fiona shouts when she comes out of her own room. Debbie’s all but running to the edge of Ian’s bed and starts to fumble underneath for something.

It’s too late for this shit, Ian thinks, and shields himself under the covers when the hallway light turns on.

Fingers wrench his sheets apart from him and it’s Debbie turning him over forcibly. He doesn’t know where her sudden strength is coming from, too clouded by half-lidded sleep to understand what’s going on. Before he knows it, there’s a sharp jab at the base of his neck and the unmistakable shock of Neurotriptyline invading his system. He gasps and his whole body goes rigid until the wave of treatment passes.

There’s a collective sigh of relief and Debbie turns back to the rest of the family. “We forgot,” she says, breathless, and Ian comes out of himself enough to catch the time on his wrist. “Forty minutes late. We almost forgot.”

“Shit,” Fiona swears, arms crossed. “Thank god, Debbie. _Shit._ ”

“Damn,” Carl says in the corner. “Ian could’ve eaten my brains. Or Liam’s.”

Everyone looks at Carl in mild exasperation.

“Thanks, Debs,” Ian manages. He’s shocked. The doctors had been adamant about making sure doses were taken every twenty-four hours. Missing a dose would mean going rabid in a matter of minutes. There had been instructional videos on the dangers of missing a dose, how to handle it and ultimately, what would happen if they refused to.

“What about Frank?” Lip asks. He’s already opening Frank’s door and the sound of snoring fills the hallway.

“I gave Dad his hours ago,” Carl offers. He shrugs and takes a step towards Ian. He can just make out Carl’s face in the dark room; tentative curiosity in his eyes. “So how come you’re not growling and seizing?”

Ian sits up, rubs the sore spot on his neck. “I don’t know.”

He takes in the looks of everyone in the room. There’s a mixture of tiredness and relief, but fear mostly. It makes Ian uneasy, seeing his family looking at him like that – like he was going to pounce on them and hurt them.

He could have though. He should’ve been rabid by now. Ian doesn’t want to imagine himself, turning and _going_ right there in the room with Carl and Liam, with Lip, Fiona and sweet Debbie just outside. He even thinks about Frank for a second and wonders if he would’ve recognized him as someone _like_ him under all that mousse.

“I don’t know,” he says again. He searches the faces of the people he loves most. They’re all afraid, he thinks.

Fiona snaps out of it first and steps into the room and starts to push everyone back to their respective beds. “Okay, everyone. Sleep. _Now_.”

Debbie leaves with a smile and whispered goodnight. Carl checks up on Liam before he’s jumping up onto his bed. And Lip stands at the doorway until Fiona gives him a look. The sound of his door clicking shut and locks being put in place makes Ian cringe.

It’s just Fiona and Ian now. She looks worried, her hair a mess. She’s too skinny, he notices, and she looks so incredibly tired – more than he’s ever seen her look. Even back when they had been juggling with expenses, no money and jobs that question your dignity. Ian almost wants to say he’s sorry. He’s so sorry for everything he’s put them through – leaving for the army, dying and then coming back like –

Like _this._

In that moment, Ian feels exposed and so ashamed.

“Fiona?” Ian says, voice shaky.

“Yep?” she says quietly. Concern troubles her bottom lip. He feels like he owes her something. An explanation. But it’s not something he can easily say. Let alone something that can erase everything that has happened.

“I’m,” he starts and looks at his hands. They’re grey and cold. “I’m sorry.”

Ian sighs, deflated and empty. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. But Fiona walks over and places a hand on his cheek and kisses the top of his head.

“I know,” she says into his hair and her voice hums comfortably through his body. He imagines it’s warm and he remembers a time when her softness reminded him of home. “Go to sleep. And next time, don’t fucking schedule your doses for the middle of the night.”

She leaves him with a light pat on the cheek and closes the door quietly behind her. Ian’s left sitting on the bed, listening to the soft even snores of his brothers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated! Let me know if things seem unclear to you, especially if you haven't watched In The Flesh. Thanks for reading!


End file.
